


Grave Consequences

by manic_intent



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, M/M, Post-Canon, That Undead Nightmare AU post-RDR2 where everyone comes back from the dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 20:17:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20121076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: Someone was riding into the ranch, their tack ringing against the heavy clop of their horse. John pocketed his belongings and drew his pistol. It was long rusted and useless, but in the gloom maybe that wasn’t too obvious. He peered out from behind cover against the old ranch. The rider sat on a familiar horse. A ghostly mist fed away from the Pale Horse’s flanks, its front half the colour of drying blood, its hindquarters bone-white. Its unnatural bright blue eyes with their pinpoint pupils swept the ranch, the horse bridled in black leather and ivory. Its rider was a big man in black, his features in shadow under the brim of his hat, his coat twisting over the flanks of the Pale Horse.John shrank back against the house. Was that Death himself, come to seal John back into the grave? While John was trying to figure out a quiet way to sneak off, a familiar drawl broke the dusty silence. “Come on out, Marston. I know you’re here.”What. John poked his head out from behind the house. “Arthur?”





	Grave Consequences

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mercyme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercyme/gifts).

> For @mercyme, who asked for John/Arthur, Undead Nightmare AU. I did consider continuing Dead to Rights, but then again, I do like the older!Arthur dynamic (though I guess technically by this time, John would and Arthur would be roughly the same lived age). Contains spoilers for Undead Nightmare and both RDR games, so:
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> For those unaware of the DLC, basically, Undead Nightmare happens somewhere after John gets Abigail and Jack back and they’re living in the ranch again, right before John gets murdered by Pinkertons. An Aztec artefact is stolen in Mexico, which causes the dead to rise/the zombie plague. Uncle infects Abigail who infects Jack. John locks Abigail and Jack in the ranch and goes off to try and find a cure. Eventually, after many shenanigans, you return the artefact to its rightful place. You also end up with a store of holy water on your person. After the events of RDR1, the mask gets stolen again. John is dead but rises as a souled zombie because he was buried with holy water.

John woke up in the dark. He blinked and tried to sit up, only to smack his head against a wooden ceiling. A lid. Swallowing panic, John felt around himself. He was inside a coffin. Buried alive. John drummed his fists against the wood, hollering. It didn’t budge, but maybe he wasn’t buried too deep. Perhaps someone would hear him. He kicked and punched wildly at the wooden lid until it started to splinter and tear free from its nails. Shoving his shoulder to the wood, John braced himself and heaved up with desperate strength. 

Soil shifted and crumbled against the lid, showering down over his hat and shoulders. John scrambled out of the thankfully shallow grave, scratching frantically at the dirt until he’d hauled himself out, blinking at the growing dusk. There was a simple wooden cross by John’s head, set at the head of the grave. It had his name on it and nothing else. 

“Fuck,” John croaked. He got to his feet and dusted off the dirt as best he could, looking around. The ranch at Beecher’s Hope stood unlit not far behind him, empty of cattle. John stared at the farm for a long moment and let out a choked sound. The stables. The shootout, the row of Pinkertons in a firing line. It’d been quick. 

John started to walk toward the ranch and went still as he heard a scraping sound to his right. It was coming from an overgrown grave beside his. There was a cross at its head, also with a single name. “Abigail Roberts Marston… no, no, _no_.” Had someone buried John _and_ Abigail alive? John knelt by the grave, grabbing the fragment of his coffin lid and starting to shovel dirt away from Abigail’s coffin. The drumming sound got louder, the deeper John dug. A thin moan seeped out from the dirt, growing louder as John dug deeper. 

“Hold on,” John gasped as he shoved soil off the lid. 

Luckily, he’d been buried with his hunting knife. John was about to use it to wrench the lid open when a rotted claw of a hand punched through the thin wood of the coffin. The arm was wrapped in the ragged remnants of what looked like one of Abigail’s favourite dresses. An overpowering rotting stench seeped into the air as the hand clawed wildly at nothing. John jerked back, scrambling out of the grave. The lid splintered. Abigail—what was left of Abigail—opened her jaw wide and howled into the night. Desiccated flesh striped her skull under ragged hair. She swarmed out of the grave as John backed off, groping for the lasso at his belt. It wasn’t there. As he prepared to run or fight Abigail off, she swayed on her feet, her head listing to a side. She didn’t charge him.

“Abigail?” John jerked back as Abigail snarled and twisted in his direction. She sniffed the air, then went still again. 

Huh. John backed off to the silent ranch. He had to find Jack. Warn him, get him to watch Abigail while John set out yet again back to goddamned Escalera to find out what might’ve happened to the mask. 

The windows of the ranch were barred by boards, as was the door. The porch was dusty and fetched up full of tumbleweed that had grown thickly over the floorboards. Beecher’s Hope looked like it’d been abandoned for a while. Bewildered, John was slowly circling the ranch when he came to the rain barrel. The face that looked back at him through the reflection made him startle backwards with a yell. John belatedly peeled his gloves an inch back from his wrists. What he saw was somehow worse than what he was braced for. He’d died long before Abigail had. The decay was worse. The bones of his arm winked up at him from under the glove, and the sleeve of the coat that John had been buried in. Muscle was growing slowly over it, flesh repairing itself before his eyes. John peeked back into the barrel. His nose was missing, as were his cheeks, but skin was starting to grow back over his teeth. 

“What the hell?” John whispered. He patted himself down. Someone—maybe Jack and Abigail—had buried him with his guns, a pouch full of ammunition, and some of the trinkets that he’d been fond of carrying with him during his travels. A dried rabbit’s foot and some gewgaws—and the bottle of holy water from the Mother Superior in Los Hermanas. It burned with pale blue fire in his palm, but it didn’t hurt. 

Someone was riding into the ranch, their tack ringing against the heavy clop of their horse. John pocketed his belongings and drew his pistol. It was long rusted and useless, but in the gloom maybe that wasn’t too obvious. He peered out from behind cover against the old ranch. The rider sat on a familiar horse. A ghostly mist fed away from the Pale Horse’s flanks, its front half the colour of drying blood, its hindquarters bone-white. Its unnatural bright blue eyes with their pinpoint pupils swept the ranch, the horse bridled in black leather and ivory. Its rider was a big man in black, his features in shadow under the brim of his hat, his coat twisting over the flanks of the Pale Horse. 

John shrank back against the house. Was that Death himself, come to seal John back into the grave? While John was trying to figure out a quiet way to sneak off, a familiar drawl broke the dusty silence. “Come on out, Marston. I know you’re here.”

What. John poked his head out from behind the house. “_Arthur_?” 

“There you are,” Arthur said, raising the tip of his hat. His eyes were the same as the Pale Horse’s—bright blue with a pinpoint of black in the centre. Before John could call a warning, Arthur looked sharply to the side. Snarling and grasping at the air, Abigail was lumbering in his direction. She hesitated at the porch, sniffing. 

“Jesus.” Arthur peered at Abigail. “Abigail? Shit.” 

Abigail started forward again. John charged her before she could get close to the Pale Horse—he’d seen its mist disintegrate the undead. Thankfully, Abigail stopped, and Arthur backed off, the horse snorting loudly. “Don’t get close to her,” John said. “Gimme a sec. I’m gonna try and lock her in the stables.” 

Luring Abigail to the stables didn’t take too long. Thankfully, one of the stalls was still intact. John pushed her in and latched the door as he whispered apologies, retreating quickly as she snarled and scratched at the door, going still once John was out of hearing range. Goddamn. _Abigail_. John was shaking by the time he returned to where Arthur waited, at which point a belated thought struck him. 

“She didn’t register you as one of the living,” John said. 

“I see dying hasn’t had any effect on that tiny brain of yours,” Arthur said, annoyed. “I’m fucking dead, John. I died years ago, by my measure. I’m dead, so are you, and so’s Abigail, what the fuck. It hasn’t even been that long. Is Jack dead too? How the hell did you screw up this badly?” 

Despite his shock, John started to laugh. He laughed so hard that his ribs shook against his rotting shirt, and he had to lean back against a post. “Christ. To think I missed you. Asshole. How’d you come back? And that’s my horse you’re riding.”

“This ain’t a horse that belongs to either of us, idiot. If she got caught by the likes of you, it’s because she wanted to be caught.” Arthur patted the Pale Horse’s throat. “Whistle up your horse. We have a long ride ahead of us. I’ll explain on the way.” 

“The Pale Horse you’re riding, it’s got an effect on the dead, it…” John trailed off. 

Arthur was clearly immune. By his unimpressed silence, John guessed he might be too. John whistled shrilly. He wasn’t expecting it to work and was surprised when there was an answering whinny. War trotted out from behind the ranch, snorting and stamping. Flame danced from its mane and sparked from its hooves. It stared at John with bright red eyes as John approached. When John didn’t burst into flame, the horse nuzzled John’s shoulder as John patted its dark red pelt, bracing itself as John hauled himself onto its black saddle. He fit as though he’d never left.

“Lead on,” John said, nudging War up to Arthur’s side.

#

As far as Arthur knew, he’d been ‘properly dead’ for a while and probably hadn’t managed to get free of his grave during the first plague. “Someone dug you out this time 'round? Charles and I buried you somewhere quiet. People can’t have found your grave by accident," John said.

Arthur scratched his jaw instead of answering. Other than his eyes, he looked unsettlingly human. He didn’t breathe or blink, but he wasn’t chalk-pale or missing bits like the rest of the Infected—especially for someone who’d been dead for years. All the mannerisms John remembered were back. Hell, even that _voice_. Arthur had always spoken to the strangest, deepest parts of John’s soul, the bits John kept buried out of habit and caution, that he’d once tried to run away from. All that being back—hell. This really was Arthur. 

“This is the bit that’s gonna be hard to explain,” Arthur said as they rode down the dirt road on a tireless canter. The plain around them was unnaturally still in the night. No insects, no frogs or birds. John remembered that stillness from the last time. “I was summoned along with the Pale Horse. I’ve been bound to it as its current Rider, that’s why my eyes are the way they are. This ain’t the body I was buried with. Or the clothes.” 

“I remember that,” John said. Arthur looked substantial enough, as did the Pale Horse, but now that John looked closely—Arthur was also giving out the same mist as the Horse, if from under his coat. He wasn't shrunken in on himself and gaunt neither, the way he'd gotten when his illness had ravaged him. This was Arthur the way he'd been, in the prime of his life. “Who summoned you? And for what? What’s that got to do with you coming for me?” 

Arthur ignored the first few questions. “You fixed all this the last time, so I’ve been told. That’s why I was sent to get your ass.” 

“That can’t be right. I’d only just risen when you showed.” 

“Yeah, we figured something was off. We tried summoning you and binding you to War, but something went sideways. Had to bring the horse to you instead. Once we got close, I’m guessing that’s when you finally woke up. Given how your clothes ain’t a-changing and neither are your eyes, I’m guessing something else fucked up, which just about figures, given it’s you.” 

Maybe the holy water had disrupted the summoning. Prevented John from rising with the rest until War and the Pale Horse had come close. “It’s been less than a day since I’ve come back to life and you’re already riding my ass,” John complained. 

Arthur smirked. He started to say something, thought the better of it, and went quiet as he veered off the main road into the trees. The glow from War gouged long shadows from narrow trunks as they went. Molten red hoof prints burned on the grass where War walked, disappearing in seconds. Arthur slowed down to a trot. 

A loud voice from deeper within the trees said, “Who’s there?”

“Sadie?” John nudged War eagerly to the front as Sadie stepped out from where she was hidden behind a tree. The years had worn deep lines over her face and silver into her thick braid of hair, but as Sadie lowered her gun with a hard curve to her mouth, Time felt like it was falling away easy. 

“You look like Hell,” Sadie said. She turned around and walked through the trees onto a jut of rock that overlooked a jagged stream below. A young girl who’d been stirring something in a cookpot leapt to her feet, hand dropping to the pistol at her hip. She looked fourteen, maybe fifteen. A big mane of curly black hair framed a small brown face that looked torn right out of history. John gaped. 

“_Tilly?_” 

The girl flinched but relaxed as she studied John. “So you’re John Marston,” she said. 

“This here’s Miss Susanna Jackson-Deschain,” Arthur said as he got off the Pale Horse. He didn’t bother removing its tack or hobbling it—the Horse trotted over to a side of the camp and watched the sky. “Late of Saint Denis. Tilly’s daughter.” 

“Real pleased to meet you, Miss Susanna,” John said as he dismounted and patted War’s throat. “How’s your mum keeping?” 

Arthur grimaced just as John regretted the question. Why would Tilly let her young daughter run off with her old gang by herself if she was hale? Tilly, who’d once chased away people who’d pissed her off with a shotgun, who hadn’t ever been scared of giving anyone a piece of her mind. “Not well,” Susanna said, her hands clenching. “Saint Denis got overrun. Aunt Sadie got to me in time. Mum and the others—” Susanna cut herself off with a harsh breath. 

“She didn’t need much saving,” Sadie said, plopping herself down on the grass beside the cookpot. “Was holding out fine at her aunt’s. Still, good thing I was in the area.” 

“Did you summon Arthur?” John asked Sadie. 

“Me? Do I look like I could do something like that?” Sadie gestured at Susanna, who instantly looked embarrassed. “Was Susanna who did it, when we were a couple of days out from Saint Denis and hiding in the bayou. Gave me a fucking turn when Arthur showed up.”

“My daddy’s sister is an obeah woman,” Susanna said. She fished out a small leather pouch around her neck from within her blouse, holding it up. “She made it through the first plague fine, so she was prepared for the second time. Collected some things over the years. Spells and trinkets for protection and stuff. She taught me what she could while we were hiding out. She’s also the one who divined that John stopped the plague the last time.” 

“Where’s she now?” John asked. “Sounds like she could be a real help.”

“She chose to stay back in Saint Denis. Said she could maybe figure a way out to keep everyone calm. She gave me some of her things when Sadie came for me. Though, when I cast the binding spell I didn’t think I’d get Arthur,” Susanna admitted. “I just wanted help when the crocodiles were a-coming. Didn’t mean to disturb your rest.”

“Sounds like it was gonna be disturbed anyway,” Arthur said. He sat down on a log, stretching out his legs. “Sit down,” Arthur told John. “Now how’d you stop all this shit the last time?” 

John started to talk. During the story, Sadie and Susanna scooped out stew from themselves from the pot. They didn’t offer John or Arthur any, but John didn’t feel hungry. He didn’t feel anything. Not the chill of the night or the warmth from the fire close to his boots. Was this how being dead was like? Small wonder the infected seemed animated by hunger and rage. 

As he wound down, the others thought this over. “So you’re telling me,” Arthur said slowly, “that you put this here magic mask back to stop this magic plague and you didn’t, I dunno, fucking make some attempt to hide or seal off wherever this altar is? Jesus, John. How stupid can you get?” 

“Didn’t want to disturb the ruin any more than it’d already been. You wasn’t there,” John said, annoyed. “What with finding out that Goddesses and magic and all that was real, I didn’t want to do something that might make shit worse. I just wanted to get home to check on Abigail and Jack.” 

“Yeah, about them. The hell happened there?” Arthur demanded. 

“Arthur,” Sadie warned, but it was too late. John glared at Arthur, fists clenching. 

“You weren’t there, Arthur. You of all people should understand. The life we led, it’s always got consequences. You think the Pinkertons would’ve left us alone? When Dutch and Bill and the others were still out there? Cornwall’s family wanted us all dead, and that’s what they got, all right? Some of us got out clean. I didn’t.” Getting up, John stalked off down the slope to the stream, hands shoved into his pockets. Behind him, Sadie was starting to argue with Arthur. 

John walked down the stream. He wasn’t planning on going far. The rage that had animated him for much of his life seethed within him with familiar toxicity, a dense weight shoved down over his chest. John had never been able to rid himself of his temper, never been able to stop letting it drive him in ugly ways. Even that had caught up with him at the end. He walked until he got tired of walking, then he sat down on a rock and watched the water for a while.

A step close by made John look up. It was Susanna, of all people. She looked worried. “You’re not leaving, are you? You probably shouldn’t get this far from War.” 

“Yeah, I figured.” John had been watching the skin growing back on his face. The regeneration had slowed down sharply this far from the camp. “You shouldn’t be here, young lady. Ain’t Sadie or Arthur gonna worry?” 

“Uncle Arthur’s keeping watch in the woods and Aunt Sadie’s asleep, so I snuck off to look for you. I’m good at being quiet.” Susanna sized him up with a glance, then sat down beside John with her hands over her knees. She wore an old blouse and old breeches that were rolled up to her knees and belted at her waist—probably Sadie’s. Riding boots that looked a little too big for her. “Mum told me stories about all of you. Usually when Dad was away on business.” 

“Good stories?” John asked. 

“She didn’t believe in those. She said she only believed in telling things as they were. The truth. That y’all did some bad things. But that you and Uncle Arthur tried to do right by the end.”

“Arthur did,” John said. He stared at the water again. “Don’t think that was ever me. Doing right by anything. Arthur’s kinda right to be mad—I did seriously mess things up.” 

“Aunt Sadie didn’t think so. She said she lived with you, Uncle Charles, Aunt Abigail, and Jack for a bit. Said life was good.”

“Sure was.” John had missed them powerfully when they’d left. He hoped Charles was keeping well. Rising to his feet, John said, “C’mon. Let’s get you back to camp, lil’ lady. It’s way past your bedtime.” 

Susanna rolled her eyes. “Aunt Sadie never enforced no ‘bedtime’ shit.” 

“And your mama didn’t?” 

“Mum’s…” Susanna trailed off, clenching her hands. 

John kicked himself. “She’ll be all right. Your mum’s one of the toughest people out there. I’ve known her for years,” John said, trying to sound as confident as he could. “Last time the plague happened, when I got the mask back in place, everyone became right as rain. Doubt this is gonna be any different.” 

“Sure,” Susanna said. She made an effort to cheer up. “I guess you did that all by yourself too. Getting the mask back where it needed to be. Now you’ve got us. Maybe things will be easier.” 

“I’d bet. You’d be back home in no time. Now git. You need sleep.” John walked Susanna back to camp. Sadie glanced up as they got close, frowning as Susanna curled up on her bedroll, but made no comment as John said nothing. John didn’t feel like he needed sleep. He borrowed Sadie's repeater and kept watch closer by the slope, listening to the silence.

#

Susanna yawned through the morning and kept dozing off in her saddle—she wasn’t much of a morning person, even after coffee. “City kid,” Sadie said, as Arthur had to lean over to nudge Susanna awake for the third time. “Her mama taught her how to ride, but she ain’t much used to it.”

“Why can’t we sleep in a little more?” Susanna complained as they rode, yawning. “We’re up real early.” 

“Because we shouldn’t be wasting time and because Arthur here gets bored when he has to kick around doing nothing,” Sadie said, “and when Arthur gets bored, he starts shooting things.” 

“G’awn, blame me,” Arthur said. He was in a mellower mood this morning, though he kept sneaking glances at John. John ignored Arthur, even though he wasn’t particularly angry at Arthur any longer. John understood Arthur’s point, and he wasn’t so ignorant that he couldn’t see how his own choices had led him to this point. Not that he knew how Abigail had died. Or where Jack was. 

“My butt hurts,” Susanna complained. “Did y’all truly spend all day riding around like in Mum’s stories? Doesn’t everyone’s butt hurt?” 

“Watch your posture and don’t sit on that poor horse like you’re a sack of potatoes, and it’ll get better,” Arthur said. Susanna stuck her tongue out at Arthur but looked at Sadie, trying to mimic her posture. Satisfied, Arthur drew the Pale Horse back a few paces to Arthur’s side. 

“Where are we even going?” John asked. 

“Armadillo,” Sadie said. “We need supplies and news of the border if we wanna cross safely down to Los Hermanas. We should probably head back to where the mask was. See if we can find some clues about where it is now.” 

“Sounds good,” John said. It was what he would’ve done. 

“‘Sides, you need clothes. You’re looking less and less like one of the dead by the day, but those clothes you’re in will get you mistaken for one of them from a ways off,” Sadie said. “You’re still covered in dirt like one of the new-risen.” 

“John covered in dirt kinda used to be his default look when he was Susanna’s age,” Arthur said.

“Shut up, Arthur,” John muttered. Susanna giggled. 

Arthur ignored him. “There was this time he thought he could catch a fish with his bare hands. Went knee-deep into a muddy river to prove it.”

“Wonder which asshole dared me to do it, huh?” John shot back. 

“An asshole smart enough to know you sure as hell couldn’t do it,” Arthur said, snickering. “What with you falling onto your ass into the river and having to be fished out of it by Hosea.” 

“I nearly fucking drowned,” John said, though he couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of him. 

Those had been kinder times, when the camp had been smaller, when he and Arthur had been closer. They’d done everything together when John had been growing up. Then Arthur had filled out. Grown taller, packed on muscle. After that, he’d taken his place as Dutch’s main gun and hadn’t had much time for childish things. The pranks had stopped, and John had missed them. 

“I remain shocked that y’all survived your childhood,” Sadie said. Arthur chuckled. The ride into Armadillo was pretty quiet, which put John in a better mood. They saw some of the infected a ways off, standing stock-still where they’d risen, swaying in the wind, but there weren’t that many of them. 

Armadillo had also learned from the last time. The town had folk with rifles perched on rooftops and balconies, and people were busy setting up a fence of stakes. John tugged his hat down over his face as a grey-haired man in a pale grey vest and a white shirt rode out of town on a black horse to meet them. Marshal Leigh Johnson didn’t look much different from the last time John had seen him, when they’d cleared out Fort Mercer together. Same nickel-plated revolvers at his side, even. As before, he didn’t give War or the Pale Horse a second glance. It was part of their magic, maybe. No one John had ever met during the plague before seemed to register them as anything but normal horses. 

“Gonna need y’all to state your business,” Johnson said in a firm tone. He looked keenly at Susanna as he said it. When she stared evenly back without dropping her eyes, Johnson relaxed a little. Weird.

“We’re just gonna be passing through,” Sadie said. 

“I’m minded to let you pass, but y’all have to admit, a heavily armed group like y’all travelling with a kid looks mighty strange,” Johnson said. 

Susanna bristled. “You don’t want me riding into your town on the main road, is that it? What, is there some special road for coloured folk that you’d have me prefer?” 

“That ain’t my meaning, miss. The world’s an ugly place, and when it gets uglier people tend to be downright… _John?_” Johnson peered at John. “I’ll recognise that scar anywhere. Hell. I heard news that you was dead. Why’re you hiding back there?” 

John tipped up his hat. Thankfully, his face had either repaired itself enough that it didn’t make Johnson flinch—or Johnson didn’t notice the damage. “Hey, uh, Marshal. Was trying to get into town quietly. Thought you moved away from Armadillo.”

“Tried. When the plague rolled back in, I came back. To check on everyone.” Johnson looked curiously at Arthur, then back at John. “Where’re y’all headed?”

“South past the border,” John said. 

“With a kid?” Johnson said, aghast.

“What’s wrong with that?” Susanna growled, belligerent. 

“It’s dangerous, is what it is. All the word we’ve got is that the border towns have been overrun,” Johnson said. 

“She’s my niece,” Sadie said, “and I ain’t leaving her nowhere when she don’t got anyone else in the world.” 

“Niece…? Ah. All right then. Y’all can come by. Sorry about the suspicion. Last time there was a plague, when the infection got to animals, some people started well. Harming each other and such. Stealing away kids,” Johnson said, choosing his words with care. “S’why I was concerned.” 

“He’s good,” John said when Arthur stared suspiciously at Johnson. 

“C’mon through,” Johnson said. They rode into town after a brief round of introductions and hitched their horses by the saloon. Johnson had a pointed word with the proprietor, who looked visibly annoyed when Sadie bought their rooms. 

“I’d like to have a bath, please,” Susanna said as the proprietor handed over keys. 

He harrumphed. “Baths in this establishment ain’t for your sort. You might wanna try the—”

“You’re saying this inn don’t have a bath?” Arthur cut in, his tone deceptively mild. His hand tightened pointedly on the butt of his revolver. 

“It sure does,” Johnson said. He glared at the proprietor. “Nelson, the dead are rising and you _still_ want to pull this shit? Draw the young lady a goddamned bath. Go.” Sputtering, Nelson retreated up the stairs. Sadie followed, with Susanna beside her—though Susanna made a rude gesture at Nelson’s back. Johnson chuckled to see it. He poured them drinks from the bar counter and sat them down at a table in the corner. 

“Good to see you again,” John said as they sat down. He wasn’t sure what would happen if he drank, so he didn’t touch the glass. Arthur knocked back his glass, slouching into his chair. “How’s things this time round?”

“New District Marshal and one of his deputies got themselves infected early on. By the time I came back, the town was in a bad way. Had to muster up a posse and clear it out. That’s why people are on edge,” Johnson said. 

“We won’t stay long. Just getting supplies,” John said. 

Johnson cocked his head. “Heading south of the border, huh. That’s what you did the last time.”

“That’s right.” John took a tiny sip of his glass. When nothing felt like it was coming loose or worse, he drank more of it. He could taste the alcohol on his tongue, but it didn’t burn going down. He didn’t feel warmer from it. 

“You boys in a big hurry?” Johnson asked. 

“Yeah,” Arthur said, just as John said, “Depends, why?” 

“There’s a church ‘bout half a day’s ride from Armadillo. Haven’t heard from the reverend for days. Can’t spare anyone to have it checked out. If y’all could help out—”

“Reverend’s probably dead,” Arthur said. 

“I’d be glad to ride out and have a look,” John said, with a pointed stare at Arthur that he returned coolly. 

“Follow the road south of town until you get to the blackened tree split in half, then head to your right up the hill. You can’t miss it. Thanks,” Johnson said, rising to his feet. 

After the Marshal left the inn, John said, “Hell’s wrong with you?” 

“We’ve got problems of our own, don’t we? I’d like to be able to return Susanna to Tilly soonest possible,” Arthur said. 

“They’re gonna need to rest up and buy supplies. We don’t. We could ride out, have a look, and come back. What’s the fucking problem?” John retorted. “You used to do shit like this all the time. Help total strangers you ran into just for the hell of it.” 

Arthur glared at John with his unblinking pinpoint eyes. “We can’t leave Susanna.” 

“She’ll be fine with Sadie.” 

“You don’t know that. The infection could get into the town. Or—” Arthur squeezed out a jarring sound, his hands curling into claws as he clutched at his head. 

“Arthur. _Arthur_,” John said, alarmed. “Hey, you all right?” 

“We can’t—“ Arthur coughed, scratching his throat and squeezing his eyes shut. “I can’t leave her.” 

“The summoning spell,” John guessed. Arthur shuddered but didn’t answer. Susanna had summoned Arthur to protect her. She hadn’t meant to, but now he rode the Pale Horse in her name. John patted Arthur on the shoulder. “I get it,” John said. “You stay here. I’ll go.” 

Arthur gave him a wounded look. He grit his teeth, staring hard at the glass, twitching as he tried to get up. He clenched his hands over the table and said nothing. John got to his feet and headed out of the inn, borrowing the repeater from Arthur’s saddlebags and some ammunition. War snorted eagerly as John got onto his back, stamping sparks from his hooves.

#

Arthur startled out of bed when John made it back to their room and closed the door behind him with the back of his foot. “You took a while,” Arthur said.

“Lots. Of infected,” John grit out. The church had been harbouring people from the field for protection, many of whom had gotten infected. John had cleared them out and found survivors in the cellar, but getting them back to Armadillo had been a trial and a fucking half. 

“John… your arm,” Arthur said softly, horrified. John’s left arm was missing from the elbow down. 

“Ain’t bleeding. That’s something. Besides, I have an idea about that.” John unrolled the bundle he had under his good arm on the small table in the room and sat down. Arthur flinched as he saw its grisly contents—the torn-off arm, fingertips twitching. “I’m the one doing that,” John assured him, rolling his fingers. “See? Help me stitch it back on.”

Arthur let out a shocked laugh. “I’m no doctor, but I’m pretty sure a bit of thread ain’t gonna fucking cut it.” 

“Try, all right? Bind it down or something.” 

“Shit. I should’ve gone with you.” Arthur looked upset about that as he came over, digging out first aid supplies from his pouches. 

“I managed, didn’t I?” 

Arthur shook his head. “I talked to Susanna. When she’d come down and seen that you’d gone by yourself.” He lowered his voice. “I couldn’t even tell her where you’d gone. I knew she’d send me after you and I didn’t want to go even though a part of me did. I…” Arthur let out a frustrated breath. “I ain’t making sense.”

“I get it, Arthur. Magic is a real bitch. I know that better than you do,” John said. He smirked at Arthur as he fit his arm back against the severed section. “Though you sure make for one hell of an ugly guardian angel for a little girl.” 

“Fuck you,” Arthur said, though the tension in him eased as he started stitching torn skin back together. John could feel the bone locking back into place, muscle twisting back together. Arthur’s work was quick and neat, his fingers gentle as he bound the joint tightly with bandages. John cautiously moved his hand after. It was stiff, but it didn’t fall off. “Probably shouldn’t move that much,” Arthur murmured. He pulled up the other chair and sat down beside John. “Shit.” 

“Neat work.” 

“I don’t. I don’t even that we’re dead. You. Me. Abigail. That we’ve become, well. The way we are now.” Arthur stared down at his hands. 

Arthur was in an odd mood. “It won’t last,” John said softly. “You know that, right? When we put the mask back. We’ll both fall down dead.” 

“Yeah, I know.” 

“I don’t see that as a sad thing. Ain’t like we gonna know much different when we’re back at rest again. This is just a brief chance to try and do right by someone again. Do right by the living,” John said. Maybe Arthur was still unsettled by the binding on the summoning spell. “Don’t blame Susanna. I’m glad she called you. Even if it was by accident.”

“I don’t. I’m grateful to be back. Even if it’s just for now. To be there for her and Sadie. Just.” Arthur smiled to himself. “Funny how we’re dead and can still have regrets.” 

“Regrets? About what? You did the best you could with what you had, back then. We all know that.” 

Arthur gave him a strange look, then glanced back at the window. “I’m sorry about snapping at you over Abigail and Jack. You’re right. I wasn’t here. You probably did all you could too.” 

“I didn’t take it to heart. And I did get up to some stupid shit while you were gone.” Abigail had been right. John falling back into his old habits had just called attention nobody needed. 

“I don’t doubt that. I wanna say.” Arthur heaved out a slow breath and twisted his big hands together, avoiding John’s eyes. “Growing up, you were one of the most important people in my world. That’s why I was so mad when you left. Took me a while to get over myself, but. I’m glad you came back. That I got to see you again before the end. Even now.” 

“Yeah, well, we’re brothers,” John said, chuckling. “You said it yourself. You don’t need to work things up like you’re gonna propose to me or nothing.” 

Arthur didn’t laugh. He stared at his feet, his jaw set. “Yeah. Guess not.” 

John’s amusement faded. “Arthur.” 

“I’m gonna go for a walk.” Arthur pushed himself away from the chair, striding out of the room before John could say another word. Incredulous, John stared at the closed door.

“What the hell was that about?” John said into the silence.

#

Breakfast was tense. “What got into the two of you?” Sadie demanded.

“Nothing,” Arthur said. 

“Fuck that. I swear if y’all are gonna rehash some old shit that y’all got up to before you—” Sadie paused as Johnson burst into the inn. He looked around sharply, then made straight for their table. 

“Marston, I need you on this,” Johnson said. “Your friends too, if they’re willing.” 

“What now?” John asked, getting to his feet. 

“Couple of survivors just rode into town ahead of a bigger group. Said there are women and children in there, being chased down by a horde of infected. We’re gonna go get ‘em. You in?” Johnson asked. 

“I’m in,” John said. “Gimme a sec; I’ll get ready.” He had to find a working set of revolvers, at the very least.

“Meet you outside. Don’t take long; we’re already saddling up.” Johnson left in quick strides. 

John looked to the others. Sadie nodded and got to her feet. She frowned as Arthur stayed seated. Susanna looked between them both and got up too. “No,” Arthur told her. 

“Why not?” Susanna said. 

“You’re a kid. Stay here. It ain’t our business.” 

“Well, someone’s changed,” Sadie said, cocking a fist on her hip. 

“It’s the spell,” John said. 

Arthur shook his head. “Spell or not, it don’t make sense. Riding out to face a crowd of infected. Those people are probably also infected by now too. Once we do what we’re meant to be doing, they’d be fine.”

“Only if they ain’t too damaged in the meantime.” Not everyone had come back from the last plague, as far as John knew. 

Susanna scowled. “Mum said y’all used to help people who need helping, shoot people who need shooting.” 

“She also tell you that was a lie? Told by Dutch to excuse the shit he got up to?” Arthur said, his jaw set. 

“It ain’t a lie to me. I can handle myself and a gun. My parents taught me how. I’m going.” Susanna rounded the table to Arthur, grabbing his arm and looking him in the eye. “You sure are different from her stories. Don’t know if that’s the spell, or if Mum remembered you different. But my dad said we should always try to do good. _Especially_ if it’s hard.” She let him go and strode out of the inn. 

Sadie chuckled. “Hell. I love that girl. C’mon, Marston.” She stepped out into the morning light. 

John looked at Arthur, who was blinking slowly. The pinpoint black in his eyes was growing larger. Arthur got up, paused, and handed John one of his pistols. “Yours ain’t working,” he said, and headed out of the inn with a lighter step.

#

With the rescuers safely in Armadillo and the infected temporarily laid to rest in rows within an abandoned barn, the survivors kicked up a party down the main street. There was even a feast. John got cleaned up and changed into new clothes, joining Johnson for a drink. When he got tired of the party, John left Susanna under Sadie’s watchful eye as she danced with some of the other kids. He went looking for Arthur, who’d made himself scarce once they’d made it back.

Arthur was perched on the paddock at the end of Armadillo, smoking. The Pale Horse glanced at John as John walked over and went back to watching the stars. War was poised further away, staring at the bonfire that the townsfolk had lit down the main street. John climbed up next to Arthur and took a cigarette when Arthur offered one to him. They lit up by bending their heads together and touching the ends. The smoke didn’t have any effect on John. It was still a comfort, somehow, going through the motions. 

“Wish I could feel it,” Arthur said, as he blew out a stream. He’d guessed what John was thinking. “Smoking. Drinking. Hell, even the night air. I know it’s cold, but I don’t feel nothing.”

“It ain’t so bad,” John said. Arthur grunted. They smoked together in companionable silence until they had to grind out the butts under their heels. Arthur leaned back against the paddock fence. 

“Am I really so changed?” Arthur asked. “From before?” 

“I’d say it was the spell.” 

“Was it? Or maybe I was always this way, and y’all just remembered me more kindly than you should.” 

John shook his head. “I remember a brave man who got himself killed just so the rest of us could live.” 

“Not all of the rest of you. Susan died. Lenny. Hosea, Sean. Even before all that.” Arthur stared up at the cloudless sky. 

“I got Javier locked up. Killed Micah. Bill. Nearly killed Dutch too. He finished himself off.” 

Arthur blinked at John. “What?” 

“Long story,” John said. He told it to Arthur as Arthur offered him another cigarette. About the Pinkertons and their deal, about how John had chased Bill to Mexico, about how he’d finally run into Dutch at the end. About the last shootout against the Pinkertons and the way John had died. They smoked and talked—John talked, Arthur mostly listened. This too was John letting go. Accepting that things were gone. That Abigail had also passed. That Jack was somewhere else, his own man, all grown up. John grew at peace with all that as he talked. 

“You didn’t deserve that,” Arthur said, blowing out a thin trail of smoke.

“I did. All of it. The life we’ve had—for all the killing, and stealing, and robbing? We both knew there’d be hell to pay. It’s Abigail who didn’t deserve it, her and Jack. This resurrection? I’m kinda glad it’d be temporary,” John said. “For me, anyhow.” 

“No. I get it. I agree. The things I did at the end don’t make up for everything I did for the part of my life before all that.” Arthur stared pensively at his glowing cigarette. “It wasn’t ever about redemption for me. This ain’t either.” 

“I’ve been thinking things through,” John said.

Arthur sniffed. “You? That probably took a lot out of you.” 

“Fuck off. I was thinking. Since we’re here, it’s like we were given a second chance, kinda. I think maybe we should work through the rest of our regrets. The stuff we let lie when we were alive.” John shifted closer. Arthur eyed him with a wary stare.

“Hell you doing?” 

“Unfinished business.” John leaned in, but Arthur jerked away before John could get close.

“That’s not fucking funny,” Arthur said, his face tight with anger. 

“You see me laughing?” John crowded Arthur against the fence. “Arthur. Y’know. You could’ve saved us a lot of fucking trouble if you’d just told me about this earlier. When we were still alive.” 

“About what?” Arthur said, guarded. 

“About how I’d been wasting all that time when I was a kid, thinking how I’d like to kiss you but assuming I’d get punched for my sins.”

“What about Abigail?”

“Abigail’s gone. I hope I made her happy while she was still living. I don’t have many regrets on that front. You’re the last,” John said, watching Arthur steadily. “We’re both somehow here, even though that don’t make a lick of sense still to me. You’re telling me you wanna let things pass again?” 

“I don’t want pity,” Arthur said, though he was tempted—his eyes kept flicking to John’s mouth. 

“This ain’t that at all,” John whispered, and this time Arthur let him close in. He could taste Arthur fine, though Arthur’s mouth was cool against his. Arthur’s arm curled around his waist, holding him closer as Arthur leaned into the kiss. John stroked his fingers against Arthur’s cheek as their lips parted against each other, sharing ash and smoke in place of breath. They could kiss like this until daybreak without having to come up for air. Arthur pulled back first. He looked for something on John’s face, uncertain for only a moment before he leaned back in for a deeper kiss. 

They stubbed out their cigarettes and stumbled into the stables. There was an empty stall to the right, and Arthur walked them into there and shoved the door closed. Ducked into the thicker shadow within the stall, Arthur hauled John up against him, bracing his weight easily as John slung his arms over Arthur’s broad shoulders. This was moving faster than John thought it would, but it made sense to John that it did. They both knew it was stolen time. 

“Well, I’m glad that still works,” Arthur said, as John felt Arthur harden against him. John let out a startled laugh and smacked Arthur on the shoulder as Arthur snickered in turn. They were hauled back through time to when they’d been boys too sure of themselves and too prideful and ignorant to know much better. Now they kissed again with all the years and lessons of their years between them, all the consequences they had lived. Arthur gasped against John as John moaned, bucking against Arthur as he ground against John. 

The nervous tension that had wound between them since the previous night was quickening into more. John was drunk from the anticipation, from the awakening of all that was long buried, that he had never known how to voice. Arthur’s lips pressed against his throat, nuzzling the hollow of it, chasing a pulse that no longer hummed under John’s skin. John had thought it would be stranger, but it felt simpler instead. He’d loved Arthur for most of his life, a love that was a complicated, multifaceted beast of a thing. It felt natural for lust to be just part of it. “Arthur,” John whispered, “Arthur.” 

“C’mon then,” Arthur murmured back, his lips soft against John’s ear. “You’re doing good, John. Doing good.” John whined. His hips jerked against Arthur’s belly as release clawed its way through him, brighter and clearer than anything John had felt since he’d returned. He lay dazed against the wall as Arthur growled and shook against him, big hands clutching at John’s hips until Arthur went still and let John carefully down. 

“I’m glad you’re here this time,” John said after they cleaned up the best they could. He pressed his palms to Arthur’s cheeks. The prickle of Arthur’s days’ old stubble against his palm was just more proof that this was real. For now. 

“Yeah, well, someone has to keep you from fucking up again,” Arthur said. He kissed John gently on the lips. “Now let’s go get something to drink. If we’ve got to save the world or something, I’d rather do it with you _and_ a gutful of whisky.”

“I’d second that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Refs  
https://reddead.fandom.com/wiki/Timeline  
https://www.bbc.com/news/world-latin-america-23166213
> 
> twitter: @manic_intent  
about my writing process, prompt policy etc: manic-intent.tumblr.com


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